


Witcher Drabbles: Abridged

by Nocturniquette



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, No Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 10:50:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13762539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nocturniquette/pseuds/Nocturniquette
Summary: Non Slash version of my original work.Iorveth-Centric. Basically I put my favorite Elf into situations and make him get out of them. Not all the time. He has died though. And so has Geralt--and oh! I think I spoiled it. Whoops. If you want to find out what happens, step inside!





	1. A Crimson Tear

Summary: This is the non slash version of Witcher Drabbles. Most of them are going to be parallels if not outright word for word chapters of the original. But since this one is the non slash version, there will be content added to provide background and references. 

ALL NEW CONTENT WILL BE ADDED TO THIS ONE. I HAVE DISCONTINUED THE OTHER.

AGAIN, THERE IS NO SLASH IN THIS PIECE.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize is not mine. I just like to put Iorveth in my sandbox and make him play with others. *grins and winks*

AN: So without further ado I give you Witcher Drabbles: Abridged!

 

Chapter One: A Crimson Tear

Banshees can see deep into the soul of their victims. They demoralize their victims by telling them everything they don’t wish to hear.  
-Fable 2 Loading Screen

 

It came out of nowhere. There had been warning signs, but since they were all already injured, no one had heeded them. The area had gotten foggier and harder to see.  
The air had gotten colder and their breath shone whenever they breathed out. They had heard the odd sounds in the marsh, but none had been really prepared for the arrival of their enemy.

She came in a swirl of fog, floating several feet above the ground. Her cloak was ratty and tattered, as were the rest of her dress that she wore underneath.  
The clothing was old; rips and tears marred the integrity and odd colored patches over the dress showed that her life had not ended peacefully.  
Malevolent red eyes glared at them all from underneath a crimson hood.

For just a small moment in time, everything was frozen. They stared at her and she stared back.

Suddenly, her children appeared on the ground at her feet. If they could be called children. They were made of shadows, but had her red eyes.  
They were short like actual children and had the bodies to match. But they wielded weapons much bigger than themselves that made them a threat they could not ignore.  
They immediately attacked the party, forcing them all to divide and square off one-on-one against their unexpected adversary.  
But the Banshee only had eyes for one.

She swooped in without warning, forcing Iorveth to backtrack hard. He winced and placed a hand on his side where fresh blood from his newly opened wound flowed freely.

“They died because of you.” her low harsh whisper sounded like it came from right next to his ear, even though he could see her in front of him. Iorveth glared and gripped his swords tighter in response.  
“Your poor poor family. They wailed in agony while you sat in your office having tea.”  
Iorveth snarled wordlessly, the words conjuring up a hurt and sorrow so great, that momentarily, he was paralyzed by her words.  
Sensing weakness, the banshee pounced.  
“Shalandris, she screamed herself hoarse calling your name. But you weren’t there to save her from her fate.”  
The Banshee laughed, a loud horrible screeching sound, that had Iorveth drop to his knees, putting his hands over his ears.  
He barely made out the dull sound of his twin blades hitting the dirt beside him.  
To no avail. He couldn’t shut her whispers out of his head no matter how much pressure he put on his face.  
“Your children cried for their daddy but you didn’t show up.”  
The Banshee laughed cruelly, her eyes glinting in the foggy darkness.  
Iorveth suddenly let out a scream as the Banshee saw even deeper into his soul.  
He dropped to the ground, his eye rolling in his head and blood leaking from his ears and mouth.

“They burned alive because you were too weak to save them!” She cried out and their was a lull in battle as everyone heard the creature’s proclamation. 

“Iorveth!” Geralt yelled and attempted to get to his friend. He was thwarted, however, by the appearance of more of her children. \  
The elf didn't look good. He could see the blood trickling down from his face and down his neck and onto the ground.  
Even from afar, Geralt could tell the elf was fading fast.  
Cursing loudly, Geralt fought on, calling Iorveth’s name.  
To his dismay, the elf never responded.  
“He can’t hear you right now….he’s trapped in a nightmare of his own doing.” The Banshee’s voice echoed all around the now eerily silent marsh.

The Banshee laughed again, causing everyone to wince.  
“Oh...he never told you what happened to his family? Of why he hates humans so much?” she shrieked with laughter causing Iorveth to scream and convulse on the ground.  
The entity delighted in the pain it inflicted.

“Don’t pay any attention to what she’s saying! Kill the children and then we can kill her!” Geralt commanded. Roche and Dandelion briefly looked his way and nodded.  
The Witcher had sounded worried and Iorveth wasn’t looking too good.

But it wasn’t easy to blot out the caressing whisper of the creature before them.

“He loved them you know. His wife and his three children. Adored them so much. But when the humans came he was too busy to save them.”  
“Shalandris had been beautiful once, but not after the humans were done with her.”  
“They died screaming in agony, hoping their daddy would save them from the bad men.”

And on and on she went. And more and more of her children appeared cutting off any rescue attempt.  
They were all quickly being worn down by the seemingly unrelenting onslaught.

“Iorveth Ap Aneiran is a failure to many, but none so more than himself.”

Iorveth drew in a wheezing breath, his lungs burning. A glassy green eye roamed the earth and sky, searching.

“He has failed more than you know. Shalandris with her pretty smile. Mattrin and Roran the two twins. Little Lilliya with her curly red hair and big green eyes. Ciaran with his big heart. Cedric, whom he loved like a brother. And countless others he sent to their deaths.”

Vernon Roche shuddered as he heard another inhuman scream escape between the lips of the elven commander.  
Sometimes, he wished to tie that Elf to a chair and make him scream as he tortured him, but this? The sounds he was emitting were wounded and terrible; like a dying animal.  
He knew the Elf had a high threshold for pain, so the agony he was currently suffering under must have been enormous.  
There was no way Iorveth would have made any sound otherwise.

He shivered at the words, knowing they could have been a reflection of his own life, sans the wife and children. And wasn’t that a surprise?  
To know that the Elf who was so angry and bitter had once been happy enough to have a wife who loved him and children he adored was….it was surprisingly upsetting.  
To hear how they died...was it little wonder that the Elf didn’t care for his kind at all?  
Of course, that didn’t excuse the elf from the atrocities he committed; but Roche couldn’t help but feel a smidgen of pity for him.  
He’d lost more than most had in their entire lives. That he could still find the will to keep going...it was something to be admired if nothing else.

Dodging a shockingly strong swing aimed at him from one of the creepy “children”, Roche almost missed the elf moving. He was still alive. Who knows how long that would last though.

Groaning in severe pain, Iorveth lifted his very heavy head off the ground.

“We need to kill her now! She’s feeding off his life energy!” Geralt yelled as he killed another offspring.

The elf looked around, wondering why everything was so blurry and moving so slowly. He could hear his heartbeat getting slower and slower.  
“Get up! Iorveth you have to get up!” came a distorted voice. The elf continued to lay there, panting for each breath that took longer and longer to form.  
Why was it so hard?  
“Iorveth please! Please my love, you have to get up!” The voice was clearer now and the tone revealed it was scared. The voice was feminine in nature and it called to him.  
Iorveth didn’t know why, but he automatically trusted the voice.  
“Yes, that’s it! Fight my love! Fight!”  
“Shally?” Iorveth butchered the words, slurring them badly, blood leaking out of the corner of his mouth as he did so.

“It is I, my love. But you need to get up.” An ethereal vision entranced the Elf, momentarily making him forget what his struggle was.  
Long curly red hair fanned her face and fell down her slim figure in small but tight ringlets. Mercurial silver eyes watched him, wide with fear and longing. The dress she wore was pristine, once upon a time it was emerald green and trimmed in black lace and golden flower patterns. 

“Shally?” Iorveth coughed and gagged on his own blood.  
“Get up Iorveth!” she pleaded.  
Iorveth drank in her form. “Don’t wanna.” he slurred. He hadn’t seen in her centuries...how was she here?  
Shalandris’s face softened at his words, but just as quickly hardened.  
A ghostly hand came out and smacked him across the face. Hard.  
Iorveth’s head whipped to the side from the impact.  
“Now you listen to me Iorveth. As your wife I am telling you to get up and fight! If you don’t you’ll die!”  
Iorveth said nothing in reply and her eyes widened in shock. He just laid there and stared up at her with the most heartbreaking expression she had ever seen him wear.  
“You want to die, don’t you?” she whispered the words, but he heard them clearly.  
“I miss you all so much.” Iorveth whispered right back, tears gathering in his eye and falling down his cheek.  
Shalandris knelt down next to him, and placed a pale hand on his scarred cheek.  
Iorveth tried moving his head away, fore he did not have his flesh scarred while she had been alive. He did not want to repulse her with his ugliness.  
She never commented on it and kept rubbing his cheek softly.  
“My love, I am sorry for the sorrow that weighs your shoulders down. I am sorry for the burden you now bear.”  
“But?” he queried softly as he lent into her touch.  
“It is not yet your time, my love.”  
“But will you be---”  
“Me and the children will greet you upon your embracing of the apple trees. But, Iorveth, it is not your time just yet. Go back.”  
Iorveth’s face twisted.  
“It will be alright. Trust me.”  
Iorveth heaved out another painful breath. The burst of agony that flared up all over his body nearly made him pass out right then and there. Or was die a better word?  
“You must go back my love. It is now or never. You must decide.”  
Through is muddied thoughts, Iorveth realized there was a choice before him. Give in to the pain he was experiencing and get to see his beloved wife and children again or push passed the pain and keep going like he did so often?

“I’m so tired Shally. Tired of the fighting and the running. Tired of the killing and the hiding. I just want to rest.”  
He felt her hand caress his cheek up and down and he closed his eye, savoring the feeling of having her near him again. Even if it was only in his head.

“Rest will come to you eventually my love. But for now you must fight!”  
With those two words, Iorveth was suddenly plunged out of his lovely and lifelike dream and back into the cold embrace of reality.

Iorveth bolted upright. Or attempted to at any rate. Letting out an agonized groan, Iorveth fell back into the bedroll underneath him. Wait, bedroll?

“Good, your finally awake. You gave us all quite a scare back there.” Iorveth eyed the Witcher as he sat down on a stump conveniently located right next to where he was laying.

“Do you remember what happened?” Geralt asked, searching his face.  
Geralt was startled by the inadvertent display of emotion that came over Iorveth’s countenance. There was pain, anger, and a lot of sorrow.  
His green eye was glassy with barely suppressed emotion and the white-haired man turned his gaze away, feeling as if he was intruding upon a private moment that he should not be privy to.

Iorveth swallowed a few times, unsure of what to say.  
“I am fine.” he eventually replied, when the silence had gotten too quiet and awkward.  
Geralt snorted at him, bringing his yellow gaze back up to his.  
“Sixty five stitches say otherwise Iorveth.”  
The elf shrugged in reply. He didn’t remember most of it anyway. He did have the strangest notion that he’d had a conversation with his dead wife. How odd.

“The others are all okay. We killed the Banshee but she did get in a few good hits of her own. Roche is sleeping off a mild concussion and a few cuts and bruises, but Dandelion got hit by one her children and required more stitch-work than even you.”  
Iorveth raised an eyebrow, just now feeling the cool wind on both parts of his face. He was exposed. Well there was nothing for it now.  
Plus, he had no idea where his headscarf even was. He have to grin and bear it, like he did with so many other things.  
“He will recover?”  
“Give it a few weeks and he’ll be back to turning my life into a sonnet.” Geralt snarked, but Iorveth could easily read the shadow of concern still in his eyes. It must have been a very close call indeed if the worry had yet to leave the man's eyes.

“We’ll stay here for a little while before we move on.” Geralt said some time later.  
“Where is here exactly?” the elf questioned, looking around. They were no longer in the marshes. The sky was a drab gray and the darkening clouds indicated a high possibility of rain later. They were now in a forest, which was misty and foggy and for some unconscious reason the elf didn’t know, he shuddered at the quiet woods.

“You cold?”  
“No.”  
Geralt didn’t question him further and Iorveth was silently grateful.  
“Iorveth...about before...the banshee said some things...”  
Instantly on alert, both by the sentence and the quiet way Geralt was talking, Iorveth again attempted to sit up.  
A warm calloused hand gently pushed him back down. Iorveth allowed it because he was in a lot of pain that he would not give a voice too.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” he said hoarsely. He could vaguely recall a hand pressing against his flesh and a soft voice talking to him….  
Geralt relented, sensing the other man’s need for space.  
“I just wish to tell you that she said some things that the rest of us heard.”  
Iorveth nodded, his eye looking elsewhere. He’d deal with it later. If he ever addressed the issue.  
There was another awkward pause, but then Geralt sighed, shook his head, and departed from his side.

Iorveth let out a deep breath and winced, the pain he’d forgotten about flaring up.  
He yawned sleepily, suddenly weary.  
He closed his eye, shutting out all the sounds of the forest and the low tones of Geralt and Roche as they conversed somewhere off to his right.

Before he completely nodded off he felt a pair of lips brushing over his exposed forehead and a soft touch to his scarred cheek.  
“Be still my love and sleep. I will watch over you always.”

With a small smile, Iorveth surrendered to the healing sleep he badly needed. It hadn’t been a dream after all.


	2. Iorveth's Death, Abridged Version

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth dies. Harry Potter reference. Blink and you'll miss it.

Chapter 2: Iorveth Dies, Abridged Version  
(Slight crossover with Harry Potter. Blink and you’ll miss it.)

 

He coughed, spraying blood everywhere. He looked up into the glazed yellow eyes looming above him. “It’s...not your...fault….Geralt...” Iorveth choked out.   
The elf felt no ill will towards his executioner. He knew this was the end for him. There would be no escape. At long last the Woodland Fox would be dead. It was a bitter irony that he should be killed by one he so trusted. 

Both of them ignored the screaming of their comrades for Geralt to stop. The Elf knew that Geralt couldn’t stop, at least not until the spell was lifted.   
And wasn’t that odd. A mind spell had actually managed to work on Geralt, A Witcher. Iorveth huffed out laugh that splattered crimson all over his face and neck.   
Though there wasn’t anything remotely funny about the situation.

The Witcher watched him for another moment, yellow eyes emotionless and empty. Geralt said nothing and swiftly plunged his blade into the Elf’s neck. Iorveth gasped for breath that wouldn’t come; clawing at the dirt for purchase; grabbing his throat in a vain attempt to stop his life from seeping through his fingers. But the light was quickly fading around him and the last thing he saw was dispassionate yellow eyes staring down at him. Iorveth choked on his own blood and then went still. The Scoia’tael Commander had breathed his last. 

Geralt came back to himself with the sound of maniacal laughter floating in his ears. He was momentarily disoriented.   
He blinked rapidly trying to gain his bearings. He does so and wishes he hadn’t.  
The first thing he sees is the prone of Iorveth lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood.   
The Elf is lying face up, head tilted toward the sky, green eye wide open. His mouth is open, twin blood trails sluggishly making their way down his pointed chin, and despite the blood splattering his face and neck, he seems somehow sad. His fingers are still clenched tightly into the ground, looking for someone to help him but no one did.   
No one could.

He did this. A flash of memory strikes him. He remembers stabbing Iorveth in the throat with his sword. He recalls the way Iorveth struggles to breath, but only ended up choking on his own blood.  
He remembers both Roche and Dandelion screaming at him stop. He recalls being unable to.

The laughter is still happening.  
Geralt turns slowly to the source, his once slack grip on the hilt of his sword tightening at the sight of his enemy, as his rage reaches the boiling point and then some. 

“Haha, did you see the look on that Elf’s face? I knew killing him would be satisfying, but damn! I never thought it’d feel this good!” The man wearing a black robe and white skull mask huffs out another delighted laugh.  
“Oh yes! The Master will reward for me this! And to think that he was killed so easily! The man we’ve been hunting for so long!”   
The man is too caught up in his apparent daydream to notice the amount of danger he was in.

Geralt has heard enough. With an incoherent scream of rage, the Witcher launches himself at his enemy, baring his teeth in utter fury. He doesn’t bother with finesse or any of his Signs. This was fueled by pure aggression and hate alone.  
One slice takes off the man’s left arm. A cry of agony replaced his laughter and the man was on the ground sobbing, blood spurting all over the ground and on Geralt's clothing. He was beyond caring at this point. This man needed to pay for what he did. That was all that mattered right now.  
Another slice takes off the other arm. The man’s screams are cut off abruptly as Geralt swiftly decapitates the unknown sorcerer. (For how else was he put under a spell?)

Geralt doesn’t care that he’s kneeling in a bunch of blood, or the fact that he’s close to losing it as he roughly shakes the man’s corpse. He's empty but angry and it's an odd combination. He wanted answers, but he knows that none will ever come. (How could he do this?)  
He hears footsteps come from behind him, but he knows the gait so he doesn’t bother with turning around.   
He feels a hand touch his shoulder, and tries his best not to shake it off. He doesn’t want comfort.   
He doesn’t want sympathy. He just wants Iorveth back. (How could he have murdered one of his friends?)

But now the anger is fading, and left in it’s place is...nothing. He stares at the decapitated corpse, not really seeing it, before his grip slackens and it falls from his hands with a wet thud.   
The noise sounds very loud in the sudden silence that follows and Geralt doesn’t see Roche’s wince.

He feels absolutely nothing now. He’s numb. (Shouldn’t he feel something after doing such a horrible thing?)   
He doesn’t acknowledge the fact that Vernon Roche is leading him away from the scene, with a very quiet Dandelion trailing behind them looking pale and very young.   
He goes willingly because he doesn’t want to remain there. He doesn’t look back either. (What does that make him?)  
He hears Dandelion rush over to the side and empty his stomach into the bushes and can’t find it in him to blame the bard for his reaction.  
Roche was pale and wide-eyed and Geralt could feel the slight trembling of his frame next to his as the Temerian too, was coming to grips with what happened.

But how could this have happened? They were just out here to explore. Now, Iorveth was dead, Geralt was beside himself, Roche no longer had an enemy to worry about, and Dandelion had seen the brutal torture and murder of one of his friends.

When did it all go so wrong? And how was he supposed to fix it?


	3. Not All Portals Are Bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt travels back in time.

Chapter 3: Not All Portals Are Bad  
(Time travel drabble #1)

 

There he was. He was sitting in the windowsill, overlooking the rainy city of Vergen, hands resting in his lap as he gazed out over the populace. He looked exactly as he remembered him.  
Red headscarf, olive green donkey jacket, silver chainmail, a string of badges over one shoulder, two swords tied to his waist, and his bow slung over his back. He was humming softly to himself. Some Elven melody that Geralt didn’t know.

He could never forget the last time he’d seen him. Green eye staring up at the sky, the pupil blown so wide that it was impossible for him to be anything but dead. The gigantic puddle of blood surrounding his fallen body. The gaping hole in his chest from where he’d been flung onto the large protruding spiked fence where he’d died, hanging like some sort of sick marionette…

Geralt closed his and eyes and struggled to get his breathing under control. He would not think about that. 

Iorveth had saved him. Geralt had been fighting a truly monstrous being. Iorveth had been the one to take the blow that would have killed him. But even dying as he was, Iorveth had saved him one last time by firing a magical arrow into the creature’s face and blinding it long enough for Geralt to kill it.

He didn’t know what manner of creature it was, but he was glad the son of a bitch was dead and buried.

After that, Nilfgaard had taken Temeria and he and Roche had been tracking down Phillipa Eilhart who had known about the invasion and had encouraged it to happen. To say Roche had been enraged would be an understatement. The Blue Stripes Commander had lost his unit and Ves, plus his country to the Black Ones. When he’d found out that the sorceress had been responsible, it had taken everything in Geralt to make Roche stop and think before he really plunged off the deep end. He had never been the same after such a loss.

Roche had admitted to him later that he understood Iorveth a whole lot better after that. Iorveth had lost everything like he had, only it had been centuries ago. He got why Iorveth was always so angry at everything. It was hard not to be, he told him. Losing so much at once, Roche had told him that it was almost impossible not to be bitter and angry about it. 

But he still didn’t understand how he got here...wait! The sorceress had cast a portal right before he lunged at her with his sword and he managed to get himself caught up in it. 

A motherfucking portal. Damn, but he did hate those!  
Casting his gaze at the scarred Elf once more, he couldn’t say that they were all bad. Not if he got to see his old friends again. Or would that be new friends now?

“Iorveth.” he intoned quietly.  
“Greetings, Gwynbliedd.” The elf said as he turned his head to look at him. The voice was the same, the way Iorveth moved as he jumped from the window's ledge down to him was the same. T  
he hand on his hip as he got impatient at the silence. The gestures, the glare. It really was Iorveth, here in the flesh.

Things were not going to be turning out the same….this time around.  
This time around he would be the one doing the saving.


	4. Iorveth Dies Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 2nd part to Chapter 2.

Chapter 4: Iorvet's Death Part 2

 

They go back after Geralt punches his hand through a tree. They’re quiet; sullen. No one speaks.  
The forest was eerily quiet around them that morning, but Geralt determinedly paid it no mind. He was out here for a reason.

The sun rose between two mountain peaks, the sky painted with hues of pinks and reds. It was beautiful. Too bad none of the three were paying attention to it.  
Daylight had a way of making everything brighter. But not today. The sunshine and the birds were an unwelcome distraction.  
Geralt steeled himself as he rounded the bend, knowing exactly what he’d see.

Iorveth was right where they left him. (Geralt had had the foresight to place a ward around Iorveth's...body to ward off the animals, but he didn’t know when exactly he’d done so. He didn't remember doing it.)  
Dew clung to his skin, making it sparkle in the morning sun. The blood had dried to a dirty brown.   
He was still in the same position. Geralt doesn’t know why he thought he would find anything different.

He kneels beside...beside Iorveth, once again ignoring the stain and the wetness caused by the dew on the grass. He reached over and gently closes Iorveth’s eye and traces the high cheekbone beneath his fingers for a long moment. He'd never thought he'd be friends with the angry Elf. 

This never should have happened. He was supposed to be better than this. He was a Witcher, and had an automatic defense against spells that were designed to strip you of your free will. But he hadn’t managed to break the one he’d put under. He hadn’t managed to save someone from himself. He'd murdered a friend and there was no condolences in the world that could make up for his crime.

Geralt closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and releases it into the misty air. He brings out a clean cloth and runs it softly over Iorveth’s grey skin, gently wiping the blood from his face and neck. He resolutely ignores the gaping hole in his throat, but his hands are shaking by the time he’s finished. 

No one comments. He feels their presence and that is enough to make him keep going. He knows it won’t last very long. 

He gently unfurls Iorveth's fingers from the ground and removes the grass in his clenched fist. He does the same for the other hand.   
He lays them by his sides after cleaning the dirt from underneath his fingers.

He looks up for a moment, looking for an apple tree.  
He spots one about twenty feet to his left, near a small creek bed gushing water softly. 

The tree is ancient looking. It’s limbs are long and sprawled everywhere, as if warding off attackers. Apple blossoms ranging from white to a pastel pink decorate it’s overflowing branches.  
At the base, there is an open spot.

Geralt picks up Iorveth with the upmost care, being careful not to dislodge him in any way as he makes his way over to the scarred and mangled tree. He knows Iorveth can’t feel the pain anymore, but he can’t help but be gentle with the elf who had never really known such a thing.

Just as Cedric had lain amongst the tree in Flotsam, Geralt sat Iorveth down at the trunk, crossing the elf’s arms over his chest. He laid Iorveth’s head back against the tree and covered his neck with a brand new cloth to hide the neck wound.

A rustling from the birds above made the tree rumble and petals showered the both of them.  
White apple blossoms fell into Iorveth’s dark hair and Geralt got to his feet and stepped back.

“Do you want us to stay?” Dandelion asked quietly.  
Geralt shook his head wordlessly. He waited until they had both walked around the bend before he began to speak.

“When I first saw you in Flotsam, I thought you were an arrogant fool.” He chokes on a bitter laugh when he remembers telling Iorveth that he was “Just another old elf in a young elf’s skin.”  
God, had that really been three years ago?

“I had no idea why I chose you over Roche. You just seemed so...you intrigued me.” Iorveth had been a mystery to him for the longest time. Even as they traveled together, the Elf had always been careful never to reveal overly much about himself. It had taken the better part of three years to even know the smallest detail. And now he wouldn’t get the chance to know more.

A sad smile twists Geralt's mouth. He remembers Iorveth’s soft laugh; the way he smiled. Green eye crinkling and dimples showing. It had happened only once, but it had stayed in Geralt’s mind because Iorveth had only shown his smile to him. With everyone else, he was stoic and all business. With Geralt, he managed to let a little of his guard down and Geralt was honored by the gesture. Because he knew how much it really meant. But now that was gone. Gone forever and it was all his fault.

He says nothing for several minutes. He just gazes down sorrowfully at the Elf, wondering how it all went wrong. And suddenly it was too much.  
“Gods, Iorveth how am I supposed to forgive myself?” he mutters brokenly to the sky, scrubbing a hand over his face again.

An unexpected breeze sweeps right by him, the cloying scent of the apple blossoms clinging to his skin for a small moment. He looks up and blinks at what he’s seeing.

There in petal form is Iorveth. He has a knowing smile on his lips, even though it was tinged with sadness. Both of his green eyes stare at him wistfully.  
A soft petal smooth hand touches his face and Geralt blinks as Petal Iorveth leans in close.   
"Not your fault," he hears in his ear. Petal Iorveth leans back and winks once at him and then slowly fades away with the breeze.

Geralt stands there for hours, staring at the spot where Iorveth had been. All that’s left is the smell of apple blossoms and the taste of regret.


	5. Good Hostages Are Hard To Find, Part One

Chapter 5: Good Hostages Are Hard To Find Part 1

“Are you sure you’ve done this before?” Geralt asked his captor.  
Iorveth snickered from behind him as their captor froze in shock.  
“Shut up!” One of them yelled.  
“It’s just that...I don’t think you thought this through very well.” Geralt couldn’t help but point out. Really, he couldn't help himself. It really was pathetic.   
“I said shut up or else the Elf gets it!” the other one yelled.  
“Hey! I didn’t even say anything!” Iorveth defended himself. There was an amused little smile still clinging to his mouth, as if he didn’t take their threats seriously. He probably didn’t. Geralt was having a hard time taking them seriously as it was. Why had he agreed to this again?  
“I said, SHUT UP!”  
“No need to yell, we’re right here you know.” Geralt replied, wincing slightly at the high volume. Sometimes his Witcher hearing was too good.  
“ARGH!” One of them yelled in frustration and threw his hands up in the air.  
“You look like you could use some advice. Kidnapping a Witcher was just stupid, but kidnapping an Aen Seidhe? Now that was just dumb.”  
“W-Witcher!? You took a freaking Witcher!?” Tweedledum asked, turning to Tweedle Dee.  
“You didn’t notice the color of his eyes?” Iorveth deadpanned. Really? How stupid were these guys?  
“Shut it Elf!”  
“Oi! Only I get to tell Iorveth to shut up!” Geralt responded immediately.  
Both of their captors suddenly went quiet. They looked shell-shocked.  
“Ior—Iorveth!? That’s Iorveth!?” one of them squeaked in terror.  
In response, Iorveth gave them his best predatory grin.  
Tweedle Dee stepped backwards and went near the door.  
Tweedledum, however, stepped closer.  
“He doesn’t look so scary to me.”  
Iorveth slowly stood up, sans metal cuffs. He made a big show of flexing his arms and rolling his shoulders back.  
“H-How did--”  
Iorveth’s grin only got deeper and even more bloodthirsty.  
“Did you really think those were going to hold me, dh’oine?” he sneered.  
“How many times do I have to tell you to stop name-calling Iorveth?”  
Iorveth pouted. “And...you ruined it. Nice job there,Witcher.”  
Geralt gave his friend a grin. “I try.”  
“Oh Gods! We kidnapped a Witcher and his scary elf friend!” Tweedle Dee gasped out, turning white.  
Iorveth turned to him and opened his mouth, looking smug.  
“Don’t even say it.”  
Iorveth put on an innocent face.  
“Say what?”  
“The fact that you’re scarier than me.”  
“Your just jealous because more people fear me than you.”  
“I am not jealous. Don’t be ridiculous.” Geralt said.  
Iorveth raised his eyebrow at him, unconvinced.  
“Then what was all of that betting for?”  
“We agreed to never bring that up again!”  
“Hey,” Tweedledum said, trying to get their attention. Neither of them gave any indication that they heard him.  
“---You said!”  
“Hey!”  
“--not my fault you su--”  
“HEY!” Tweedledum yelled, effectively bringing their argument to a halt.  
They both turned to him, surprise on their faces. Apparently they forgot they were hostages.  
“Are we free to go now?” Geralt asked.  
Tweedle Dee fainted.


	6. Good Hostages Are Hard To Find, Part 2

Chapter 6: Good Hostages Are Hard To Find Part 2

Tweedledum looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack. Or something anyway.  
“No, you can’t just leave!” he shouted, momentarily forgetting about Tweedle Dee.  
Geralt cocked an eyebrow.   
“Why not?”  
“Because! Because I said so.”   
“That’s never stopped us before,” Iorveth pointed out.  
“Would you shut it Elf!?” Tweedledum yelled, incensed.  
“Why are you picking on me anyway?” Iorveth moaned about the unfairness of it all. Then he took a closer look at his captor.  
“Hey, wait. You look familiar. Have I killed someone close to you before?”  
“Iorveth!” Geralt yelled.  
Iorveth shrugged.  
“Gods, Iorveth! You can’t just ask something like that!”  
The Elf blinked.  
“Why not?” he asked confused, his nose scrunched up cutely.  
“That’s it! I’m taking you to etiquette classes!” Geralt threatened.   
Iorveth looked horrified.  
“You...you would turn me civilized?” he asked, green eye wide in horror.  
Tweedledum interrupted the conversation again by twirling his sword around.  
“Hello! I have the weapon here. Pay attention to me!”  
Neither of them did.  
“CIVILIZED Geralt!” Iorveth yelled.  
“But just think about it! You could interact with society like a normal person!” Geralt argued.  
“I don’t WANT to interact them! I want to KILL them!” Iorveth riposted.  
“I HAVE A WEAPON!” Tweedledum interrupted their conversation again.  
“I don’t care!” Geralt yelled at the same time Iorveth said:  
“Go poke your eye out!”  
“WHY ARE YOU SO MEAN!?” Tweedledum finally cracked and screamed.  
“Because I’m an Elf!” Iorveth yelled.  
“THAT DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE!” Tweedledum yelled and turned around and ran right into the wall. There was a loud crack, a heavy thud, and then silence.  
Iorveth and Geralt stared at each other.  
“Who knew Roche’s agents were this easy to rile up?” Iorveth asked with a smug grin.


	7. Iorveth Has Magic

Chapter 7: Iorveth Has Magic

They were outnumbered. Horribly. A massive army of Black Ones was descending down the hill towards the three of them and they had no way out.   
Geralt lifted his sword at the ready. Beside him, and off to the right, Vernon Roche did the same.  
Geralt felt his brow furrow when Iorveth, who was on his other side, did not.  
‘Is he planning on making a run for it?’ came the unbidden thought. Geralt shook it away, knowing better.  
“Iorveth?” he asked quietly. He was rewarded with the Elf turning his gaze towards him.  
The Witcher couldn’t help the gasp that escaped his mouth upon seeing the glowing eye watching him.  
“Iorveth?” he ventured again, this time a little uncertain. What was going on?  
“Hush, Geralt. I will get us through this.” Iorveth's gravelly voice had disappeared. He was now speaking with a soft, but strong baritone.

Green. Iorveth was bathed in acid green light. And then he was running towards the Nilfgaardian army before Geralt or Roche could stop him. The Elf ignored their shouts and continued on. 

He held his hands aloft from his body and the acid green light around him flared brightly, before it shot out of his hands and into the charging army.  
The effect was instantaneous.   
The ground shook violently as chariots, soldiers, and horses alike all flew backwards from the energy barrage. Screams of pain and shouts of confusion came from the front lines of the army as they all tried to figure out what had happened. When they saw Iorveth standing there, tall and defiant and bathed in a magical glow, the army roared their fury.

Nilfgaard was coming.

Iorveth's eye flared white as he held his arms above his head, unbeknownst to him, his scar was glowing white with the same magical energy.  
Cones of florescent light enveloped one third of the army roaring toward him. Iorveth jerked his hands down. Screams of agony came from the men inside the light cones, before it was abruptly cut off as they vanished in a large shower of blood and bone.

But still Nilfgaard came.

“Iorveth get out of there!!” Geralt yelled even as Iorveth readied another attack.  
This one was the biggest yet. Acid green and white blurred together. Iorveth raised his arms, palms out.  
A distant roar paused everyone in the valley.  
A crashing, rushing sound was heard and Nilfgaardian troops in the back all started screaming before they were abruptly silenced. The cause of the sound was made clear when a gigantic body of water gathered up the rest of the army and flowed backwards, taking everything in the valley with it.

The magical glow around Iorveth faded instantly, and he fell to his knees gasping.  
The Nilfgaardian army, one part of it, had been routed. For the moment. There was now a clear path out of the valley that they had gotten stuck in.

“Iorveth!” The Elf didn’t raise his head nor did he acknowledge that he heard anything.  
It didn’t take long for Geralt and Roche to reach him. The Temerian was watching him, eyes a little wider than normal. The Witcher was little better.  
“What did...”  
“How did you...” Both the Temerian and the Witcher started at the same time. They both glanced at each other and then back at the Elf who had yet to climb to his feet.

“Every Elf is born with magic. I was born with more than most.” Iorveth murmured as he slowly got up.  
Roche was thankful that he wasn’t glowing any longer, but he was still, quite understandably, wary. He’d never would have suspected that something that deadly resided within the Elf, but honestly, he should have known better. Iorveth was dangerous. Now more than he had ever thought possible. It required him to re-categorize the Elf. He wasn’t just a deadly enemy any longer; not with that kind of power. He needed to be locked up. Put away, where no one could find him and unleash his devastating power on anyone ever again. In fact, he was thinking of the perfect place right now----

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Geralt questioned.  
Iorveth lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It never came up.” he replied honestly. Well it hadn’t. So technically, he wasn’t lying.  
Roche sputtered at the nonchalant delivery.   
“You just destroyed part of the Nilfgaardian Army!!” he pointed out. “With nothing but pure magic!”  
“He’s got a point Iorveth.” Geralt stated when Iorveth still hadn’t said anything.  
“This is why I didn’t tell you. I knew you’d overreact. Already Roche is plotting on where to find a place to “secure” me.” he said, looking Vernon straight in his eyes.   
Roche didn’t deny it and ignored the mild glare that Geralt shot him.  
“The rest of the them will wonder what happened. We should leave.” Iorveth stated and swayed unsteadily on his feet before Geralt grabbed his arm to keep him from toppling over.  
“Iorveth?” Geralt’s voice was a little gentler this time.  
“I’m alright,” Iorveth reassured him. “I just used too much magic.”  
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Geralt pressed again. “And don’t say it was because I never thought to ask.”  
Iorveth closed his mouth and sighed lowly. “We’re already hunted as we are Gwynbliedd. If the humans knew that we had magic...or even the possibility of using it? They would purge us from this world faster than they already are.”  
The fact that Roche didn’t refute the claim whatsoever, proved his point.  
“My greatest fear Geralt, is that somewhere, a small Elven child will be born with magic again and will be playing with it and a human will see them. ALL Elves would be in danger in. Because there would be the chance that it could happen everywhere at any time.”  
“Hang on a minute. You said “again.” What do you mean again? You said that every Elf was born with magic.” Roche latched onto something that Iorveth had stated earlier.  
“My people...we fucked up a long time ago and magic disappeared from this world. I noticed that it had started making a comeback in your human women. It’s only a matter of time until it manifests in an Elven child once again.”  
“And then the war will continue.” Geralt reasoned. Roche nodded at him, indicating that he had came to the same conclusion.  
“Now you see why we hide away from the rest of the world?” Iorveth asked, scrubbing a free hand down over his face.  
“You can’t hide this from the world forever.” Roche said, playing devil’s advocate.  
“Why do you think I fight so hard for a free Elven state?” Iorveth queried softly.  
“You have to know that there’s no guarantee that that will stop the other countries from coming after you.” Roche said, feeling some sort of sympathy for the Elf he had previously despised. 

After the loss of Temeria, Roche had floundered. He wanted revenge for the things stolen from him, but he didn’t have the resources he’d once had to continue the fight. So he had went to Geralt to talk to him about it only to find Iorveth there doing just that. He’d been so angry that the Elf was even there, let alone breathing. He readied himself for his last fight. The only thing that had stopped him had been Iorveth's impassioned speech for him. He remembered the words well: “He’s lost everything Gwynbliedd. His home, his family, his country...no one deserves that. But a small vicious part of me can’t help but wonder that me and Roche are now the same.”

After that, a screwed up sort of kinship began. Oh they still despised the other, but it was more a friendly rivalry then all out calls for blood and violence. After the saving the life of the other, the friendship between them had grown and resulted in an antagonistic relationship that only they could have. Neither one would give it up if they had the choice. Though they would never tell the other such.

Even if Iorveth’s dream came true, there was no way to know it would last. To fight for a dream like that only to have it explode in his face as another war loomed on the horizon….was it any wonder why Iorveth was always so angry at the world? He knew long before they did, that he was more than likely fighting a losing battle. He was just too proud and stubborn to lay his weapons down. Maybe he didn’t know how to. The point was, was that Iorveth wouldn’t stop unless someone killed him. And maybe not even then.

It was the fact that Iorveth didn’t even bother to refute his claim that had Roche lifting up his arm and placing a hand on the Elf’s shoulder and squeezing it.  
“You helped me after I lost Temeria. I pay my debts.” Was all the former Commander stated, though both of his companions knew exactly what he meant. Vernon Roche and Iorveth of the Scoia’tael were now allies. Gods preserve Nilfgaard, because they wouldn’t.

The trio eventually left the scene, and Nilfgaard was never the wiser on what had killed part of their invading forces.  
But if they had any inkling of the small force heading their way, all of Nilfgaard would have been on bent knee praying to the sky.


	8. How Iorveth Lost His Eye

Chapter 8: How Iorveth Lost His Eye

WARNING: THERE IS TORTURE IN THIS CHAPTER.

Iorveth jerked awake as he heard the loud shriek of the metal door as it swung open.  
A man entered. He was on the short side; standing only at 5’7” the man wasn’t very impressive. But his sadistic cruelty more than made up for his lack of height. He had short cropped light brown hair, an oval-shaped face, thin lips, and cornflower blue eyes. Iorveth knew him well. He was the Warden of the prison he was in. He never gave his name and Iorveth wasn’t interested in it regardless. He was only interested in getting out of there alive.

Iorveth stared at him and then at the three other men that followed in behind him. This was unusual. The Warden usually came in by himself and then they had a little fun game they played called “Let’s hear how loud the Elf can scream.” Which, much to his frustration, he lost. Every single time.

“How are you?” The Warden asked politely.  
Iorveth snarled at him.   
The Warden laughed. He stopped soon after and stepped in close to where Iorveth was chained against the wall, feet dangling, just barely brushing the blood spattered floor beneath him.  
“I’ve brought my associates here for some….fun. I hope you don’t mind.” The grin he gave Iorveth sent chills up his spine.

The three men grabbed him, and despite Iorveth's best efforts they forced him to lay flat against the brick wall. Iorveth struggled, already knowing it was futile, but unwilling to concede defeat just yet.  
One of them smashed the back of his head against the wall and Iorveth went limp as stars exploded in front of his eyes. 

His vision came back and the first thing he saw was the Warden right in front of his face. A shiny silver knife was in his hand and Iorveth eyed it warily.  
“Ah, back with us are you?” The Warden said pleasantly, as if commenting on the weather.  
Iorveth felt his lip curl up on it’s own accord.  
“You know...it occurs to me that you are far too pretty...” The Warden muttered.  
The Elf felt like his veins were suddenly filled with ice. What? Oh Gods...they wouldn’t…

The Warden must have seen the barely hidden fear in his eyes because he laughed delightedly.   
Iorveth decided that he hated that man’s voice.   
“Oh, I’m not here to rape you silly Elf.” The man laughed again. “That wouldn’t last nearly as long!”  
It did not ease the tight knot in Iorveth's stomach in the slightest.  
The Warden suddenly stopped laughing and fixed Iorveth with a twisted grin.  
“I’m here to take that handsome face of yours.”  
The Warden approached slowly, silver knife glinting in the room’s light.  
“Open wide pretty Elf.”   
Iorveth stubbornly kept his mouth shut.  
The Warden nodded to one of the brutes holding him. Iorveth let out a gush of air as he was punched in the stomach. The Warden gripped his face and stuck the sharp end of the knife into his mouth. Iorveth paused, barely daring to breathe as he felt the sharp metal already biting into the corner of his mouth.  
They stared at one another for an eternity; green eyes locking with blue, neither man willing to back down.   
“Scream for me Iorveth.” The Warden said and swiftly sliced his way through the corner of the Elf’s lips.   
Iorveth blinked, at first not feeling anything. Then the pain hit and he winced badly, glaring at the cruel human in front of him. Not to mention the odd tingle he felt...  
If only he could get free….  
Then the man started to move the knife upwards and Iorveth screamed as the muscles in his cheeks were brutally cut apart, his mouth filling with blood.  
The Warden cackled loudly as he continued to wrench the blade through his cheekbone and a part of Iorveth’s mind that wasn’t overwhelmed with agonizing pain wondered how such a small knife like that could cut through bone. 

The Warden wasn’t finished and wrenched the knife up with both hands, stopping at the corner of his right eye.  
Iorveth panted as he ran out of air, blood spilling from his face and down his chest with every exhale.  
“Green eyes...funny how I never noticed before.” The Warden said, examining the irises.  
“Such a pretty shade of color too. It’s a shame.” He murmured right before he moved the blade upwards and began to cut out Iorveth's eye from it’s socket.  
Iorveth screamed so loudly and so hard that something in his throat tore. He kept screaming and kept writhing trying in vain to get away from the pain. To no avail.  
He wouldn’t notice until his throat healed that his normal smooth baritone voice changed and became gravelly sounding. It would be yet another reminder that he would never be whole again. Just another thing that was taken from him.

“Keep him still!” The Warden yelled at the three other men.  
“Voe'rle!!” Iorveth screamed in his native tongue. He didn’t care that he was begging. All he cared about was getting away from that knife.  
“Stop?” The Warden let out a high-pitched laugh. “Now why would I do that?” he said, already halfway through cutting out the Elf’s eye.

Iorveth didn’t know how much more of this he could take. He was already feeling dizzy from the massive blood loss. Black spots appeared in his vision and Iorveth prayed that he’d fall unconscious soon. He’s already puked twice and had gotten punched for it as it landed all over the Warden and his once pristine clothes.

Iorveth felt it when his eye was carefully cut from it’s socket. The sudden darkness in one corner of his vision unnerved him and Iorveth blinked back the tears lest he shed anymore in this man’s presence.

He vomited again when the Warden held up his bloody eyeball like it was a prized possession.  
“Would you look at this beauty?” The Warden said, showing off Iorveth's eyeball, gore and viscous fluid mixing with the blood on his hands.

“What are you going to do with it boss?” One of the guards still holding him asked.  
“That’s a good question. Maybe I’ll put it on a necklace and wear it.”  
Iorveth gagged. He welcomed the punch that sent him unconscious. It was a mercy at this point.

When Isengrim started the riot that led to their escape, Iorveth lingered just long enough to take the cornflower blue eyes of the Warden. He threw them into the lake surrounding the prison they were in as he was escaping onto the boat.  
He’d gotten his revenge.  
And that’s all that mattered to him.


	9. Captured By Nilfgaard

Chapter 9: Captured By Nilfgaard

He was pushed roughly to his knees in the decadent throne room.  
He gave an animalistic snarl at the man seated on the throne, knowing exactly who he was.  
He ignored the presence of the other two dh’oine already there, as he only had eyes for the man who had betrayed the Vrihedd Brigade.

“Ah, Commander Ap Aneiran. I’d wondered what became of you.” Emperor Emhyr var Emreis said gazing down at the shackled Elf with disdain.  
“Bradwr!” Iorveth spat.  
The Emperor merely raised an eyebrow. “Me? A traitor? To whom exactly?”  
“The Vrihedd Brigade! You used us!” Iorveth shouted and was promptly punched in the face by the guard next to him. All it seemed to do, however, was piss him off more than he already was.  
Iorveth growled deep in his throat and the guard next to him stepped away cautiously. The Elf had never taken his eyes off of the ruler of Nilfgaard the entire time.  
“You still know how to intimidate lesser men Commander. I see your disfigurement hasn’t stopped you in the slightest.”  
At those words, Iorveth launched himself at the man, shouldering two guards out of the way before he was forcefully tackled to the ground.  
“YOUR THE REASON I LOST MY EYE!!” He screamed, enraged beyond belief. He struggled against the men holding him. 

Emhyr laughed. “It was a sound tactical decision. I get to remain as Emperor and the Elves pay the price for fighting against the North.”

Behind the scarred Elf, Geralt’s and Roche’s eyes went wide. They knew that Emhyr had betrayed the Elves, but they had no idea that Iorveth had been one of them.

“All you wanted was your fucking crown!” Iorveth spat, baring his teeth in a bloody snarl.  
“Naturally,” Emhyr said, raising an eyebrow. “You think anyone cares about you Elves, Commander? You were a means to an end. And you outlived your usefulness. So I got rid of you and the rest of your pathetic kind while still managing to keep most of everything. It was a business arrangement Commander.”

Iorveth let loose an incoherent scream of rage.  
“THEY TORTURED US! EXECUTED US!”  
“Yes, and I have my crown. That’s all that ever mattered really. I honestly don’t know why you’re getting so worked up Commander. Your place has always been beneath those of us humans. Oh? Did you think I honestly cared about your plight?” Emhyr said and laughed as Iorveth unsuccessfully lunged at him a third time. 

“I WILL KILL YOU FOR THIS!!!”  
“How quaint.” Emhyr eyed Iorveth a second before nodding to the guards surrounding him.  
One of them bashed Iorveth in the back of the skull with the hilt of their sword and he fell limp.  
“Take him to the cells.” The guards saluted before one of them grabbed the collar of Iorveth’s armor and began dragging him backwards.

“I will put an arrow in your throat before this is over,” Iorveth gritted out and was kicked in the chest. The same guard who hit him in the head, did so again, and this time Iorveth fell unconscious from the impact.

Emhyr turned his attention to the two men still kneeling on the ground, hands shackled behind their backs.

“Now what ever shall I do with you the two of you? A Witcher and a Temerian Commander?”  
Emhyr clapped his hands in a rare emotional display. But the dark humor in the man’s eyes made them nervous.  
They had to escape this place before this resplendent palace became their burial ground.


	10. The Masquerade Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt meets Roche and a mysterious Elf at Halamshiral. Iorveth proves he's played the Great Game before and Geralt wonders who he is and what these so-called Peace Talks are about.

Chapter 10: Masquerade Part 1  
(Based off the quest in DA: Inquisition where you have to save the Empress of Orlais)

The White Gold Palace, or Halamshiral in the Elven dialect, was simply majestic. Tall proud spires rose out of the ground to hold the building up.  
Lush gardens surrounded the palace. Full of all kinds of various fruit trees and flowers, it was a jewel of the human nobles who gathered there each year for the peace talks.  
It was the place to be if you were in the know. And everyone in attendance that night would assure you, that they were certainly people you wanted to know.

This night, there were well over a thousand people in attendance. Kings, Queens, Regents, and their families and servants were all there. Guards had been tripled and the Great Game was to be played by all who attended. Save one. Or so he thought.

Geralt of Rivia was not having a nice night. His tailored clothing was too constricting and it made him feel like an animal on display in a zoo.  
He was wearing a black and red suit with silver accents. Yennefer had told him not to wear his wolf pendant, but he kept it in his pocket just in case. His long hair was pulled back into an intricate ponytail and Geralt resisted the urge to undo the whole thing and run his hands through it to get the crap that Ciri insisted made him look good, out. The red and black masquerade mask he wore accented his yellow eyes perfectly whether he knew it or not. 

What was he doing here? He was a man of action; not a diplomat. He didn’t care for petty land squabbles that were sure to happen tonight, nor did he care who ruled who. (Which conveniently didn’t stop people from dragging him into their political affairs. Because of course it didn’t.) All he wanted to know was if someone had a contract out on a monster.

There were some good things to be had here of course. Geralt liked the food. It was certainly richer and tastier than anything he had found in his travels before.  
That and the colorful arrays of the ladies and lords clothing was definitely eye catching.

Other than that, no Geralt didn’t want to be here. He would rather wade through a swamp and climb a sheer mountain to fight a griffin than be here acting all polite to people he didn’t know and people who wanted something from him just because of what he was.

A loud chiming sounded throughout the palace, and Geralt watched as everyone made their way to the Great Hall.  
Geralt's displeasure rose. Dancing. He knew Yennefer was expecting a dance, but Geralt honestly didn’t want to. But he would, because he knew it would make her happy. 

What he wanted to do was get out this ridiculous getup and go hunt something. Geralt sighed and resigned himself to a never ending torture session of crushing boredom.  
He followed the rest of the people heading into the hall, hearing the second chime echoing in his head.  
“Fashionably late now,” he heard someone mutter behind him.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Great Hall of Halamshiral was as resplendent as the rest of the palace Geralt had seen. Towering white marble pillars dominated the Hall, and standing there upon a raised dais overlooking the people who danced in the center was the Queen herself, dressed in an elegant sapphire and black ball gown complete with her own black masquerade mask.  
Her hair was adorned with diamonds, and her makeup, what little of it he could make out was an almost garish shade of light pink.  
He heard his and Yennefer’s name being called from the Royal Scribe who was reading from the royal guest registry.  
He offered his arm as they stepped out, and she took it with a soft smile. God, she looked radiant.  
They passed into the main chamber where the more important guests lingered, bypassing many on their way to the Queen.

She smiled down at them, a benevolent monarch in the middle of a snake pit. Yennefer curtsied prettily, and he only bowed when Yen tugged on his arm.  
The Queen’s face hadn’t even twitched the whole time. Impressive.  
“Welcome to Halamshiral. I trust the journey was pleasant?” she queried, her voice carrying down to them.  
Geralt recalled the number of bandits and wild animals that he and Yen slew on their way here and gave a brief smile up at the figure on the dais.  
It had been fun. “A very smooth journey, Your Majesty.”  
Queen Celene nodded at them, her smile growing just a tad larger. However, her eyes remained distant and cold.  
“I am glad to hear of it. How do you like Halamshiral so far?”  
“It is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,” Yennefer said, her purple eyes sparkling.  
Celene’s eyes warmed a tad, and she nodded again at them.  
She looked behind her, and Geralt and Yennefer moved on, seeing the dismissal for what it was.  
After another round of bowing, they both went up the red carpeted stairs off to the left side and walked up them.

Yennefer touched his arm. “I’m going to go mingle.”  
“Try not to electrocute anyone.”  
She gave a soft laugh in reply, and Geralt watched her sashay away, his eyes lingering on her lower half.

He looked around and found the wet bar, heading to it.  
Before he got there, he saw none other than Vernon Roche leaning against the wall near it.  
His chaperon was missing, was the very first thing he noticed.  
Roche had short spiky light brown hair that had tinges of salt and pepper interspersed throughout.  
The man looked younger without it on.  
He was dressed in fine blue linen trousers with a white doublet top and his feet were encased in mid calf leather boots.  
To complete the ensemble, Roche had on his Temerian Commander necklace and his sword sheathed at his waist.

He spotted Geralt as he approached and gave him a long suffering knowing look that almost made the Witcher laugh.  
Oh yes. Roche was almost as happy as he was at being forced to come here. Less even. At least he wasn’t the only one being tortured tonight.  
“Ves here?” he asked conversationally as he filled up a glass with expensive bourbon.  
Vernon rolled his eyes skyward, his annoyance and impatience quite obvious.  
“She insisted that I be here this year. Normally, I make her go alone, but she said that I needed to come this year. She wouldn’t say why.”  
Roche tipped his glass back and swallowed the remaining dregs of alcohol swirling in the bottom.  
Before Geralt could query any further, he was silenced by the sudden shouts of alarm and screams directed at the forefront of the Hall, where the guests entered.  
Roche and him shared a glance before dashing to the area.

“What in the hell is that ELF doing here?!” Roche whispered harshly. In the sudden silence, his voice carried, and the Elf who had just entered and who no doubt caused the chaos, looked up and spotted them.

The Elf, as Roche had identified him, was wearing gleaming silver armor. His breastplate was adorned with the Scoia’tael symbol, and Geralt could feel his eyebrows arching up of their own accord. A Rebel, here?  
Well, not what he expected at such an event. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so boring after all.  
Geralt returned his eyes to the Elf’s attire. He was wearing both a long bow and two swords strapped to his person, and the Witcher took it for the warning it was.  
His silver gleamed as he moved and he spotted the emerald green silk cape flowing behind him as he walked towards them. His hair was loose around his shoulders in a wave of dark auburn brown. Several small braids held his hair away from his face, silver clasps adorned throughout. A one-sided half mask adorned his face, done in green and silver accents

Everyone gave the Elf a wide berth, and Geralt heard fearful whispers from the humans present.  
“Iorveth!”  
“Iorveth is here! In the White Palace!”  
“Why haven’t the guards arrested him already!”  
“I can’t believe they let that, that thing in here!”  
And so on. Geralt had no idea who he was, but judging from the comments, and the not-so-subtle glances, that the people here didn’t take kindly to him stepping into their midst.  
They feared him and Geralt privately wondered why.

“Roche.” The Elf named Iorveth inclined his head slightly, a ghost of a smirk on his lips as he appeared before them.  
Vernon snarled at him, his hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword.  
“Come now, Vernon. Is that any way to treat an old friend?” The elf teased him quietly.  
The struggle of not just outright attacking the Elf was clear on Roche’s face, and once again, Geralt found himself curious.  
How did Roche know him and who was he?  
It was glaringly obvious that Vernon didn’t care for the Elf. And it was just as clear that Iorveth didn’t either, judging by the honey sweet comments that Geralt knew were fake.  
They were too sugary to be anything else but mockery.

“I was having a nice time before you showed up.” Roche muttered darkly.  
Iorveth snorted inelegantly, causing several eavesdroppers to frown with disgust at his impropriety.  
“I doubt you were having as good of time as you make it out to be. You hate these social gatherings as much as I do.” Iorveth pointed out, indicating that he did know Roche to some degree.  
Vernon grunted and glared.  
Iorveth’s smirk widened a fraction.  
“But enough of this. Tell me who your friend is.” And suddenly Geralt was pinned with a steely eye, calculating and intelligent.  
The Witcher instinctively knew that this man was dangerous. There was a certain slyness to this Elf that made him a little wary.  
He idly wondered how good the other man was in a fight even as he answered the question. Even though it hadn’t been framed like one.  
“Geralt.” Was all he said.  
The Elf inclined his head at him, deeper than when he had done the same to Roche not a few minutes earlier.  
It was quite clear to him that the Elf respected him more than he did Roche. Interesting.  
“A pleasure Geralt. Roche.” Iorveth then turned away from them and stepped back out onto ballroom floor.  
“Son of a whore.” Roche muttered to himself.  
Geralt decided not to comment.

He watched as the Elf approached the Queen, not seeing or not caring that the guards stiffened and unsheathed their weapons, pointing them at him.  
He certainly had balls.

“Ah, Commander. I wondered if you were going to grace us with your presence this evening.”  
Celene said coldly. The ballroom was utterly silent, so everyone heard her words loud and clear.  
Iorveth gave a faux smile, that revealed more teeth than it ought too.  
“Lady Celene.” he said and did not nod his head nor did he bow to the woman. He hadn't even called her by the proper name!  
Celene’s smile froze on her face at the insult. For that’s exactly what it was and Geralt knew the Elf had wanted to it to be seen as one.  
Celene recovered quickly, though her voice was a little more strained than it had been.  
“I do hope you find Halamshiral to your liking, Commander.”  
“I should, considering I helped build it.”  
Iorveth was deliberately goading the Queen and Geralt couldn't help but silently admire the man’s audacity.  
There were things afoot here that made his Witcher senses tingle. 

Nothing was said for a few moments, and Iorveth turned his back to the Queen before he was dismissed, causing even more gasps to erupt from the crowd watching and listening in.  
Geralt stifled a small laugh, because it was almost funny how these people were outraged by one simple, but well executed, insult. But then he supposed that was the point of the Elf's posturing. He knew he had their attention and he knew how to keep it.  
That Iorveth could certainly play a crowd.

“Va Fail, Lady Celene. I will be at the peace talks when you’re ready.” He threw out over his shoulder. He hadn't even bothered to turn his head to address her!  
He then disappeared into the crowd and Geralt lost sight of him. Talk immediately sprang up around him, giving Geralt a headache at the cacophony. They were all abuzz at the newest arrival, and many were not happy with the elf who dared to disrespect their monarch. Many were cursing the Elf’s name in quiet but vehement whispers and a few even openly called for his execution.

Geralt was more interested in the peace talks that the Scoia’tael Commander had mentioned in his brief conversation with Queen Celene.  
Just what was going on here?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks in advance for reading my story! As always, your feedback is very appreciated! :D I love to hear from you all.


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